I think there is a prism in my life.
A foul and putrid bit of glass,
That, whene’er I do good,
It dices it up into colored truth.
My own hopeful beam of white
Is turned, by this hated prism,
Instead to what I never meant it to be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting piece conjuroring up a rather psychedelic image in the mind to explain the emotions behind it. An interesting read. Keep it up. - K.